writer | écrivain | ékwiven
Street corners in the inner city,
Cul de sacs in the suburbs,
Coffeeshops,
Nowhere feels safe.
They steal from us, then degrade us.
Dehumanize,
Arrest and slay us.
Trying everyday in every way to erase us from history,
But still we fight (and fight we must!)
we refuse to abide.
Lonely roaming ideas
yearning for freedom
Sometimes looking back
you get livid with yourself
for being angry/pathetic/vulnerable when you shouldn’t have been
the permanence of the past rapping at the chamber door to your soul
find solace in the fact that while the past is permanent
the past has passed
Same sad news,
dark sky, cold winds,
Fat cats checking investments,
ignoring corruption at home in favor of the like abroad.
Despots disparaging/dictating to other despots.
And what of my generation?
We’ve revived taking to the streets,
grilling/screaming at our legislators,
Demanding change,
asserting alt identities,
Casting aside stigmas,
living how we want with whom we love,
loving ourselves openly.
Not lost nor lazy, but
creative, innovative,
brutally honest.
You can’t f#ck us, without paying first.
Truth spilling out like salt
Fire in my guts
But stiff legs keep me from flight
Holding on to the happy remnants of the past and trying to trash the rest
Punch a clock, pay the bills
Vacation
Return to stress
Gnawing at thoughts, eating skin
Deep breathing, deep sea of relaxation
Oils, candles, scents, and bath creams
All amounts to the same thing
Struggle
Unrest written on the walls,
a restless sadness sewn into your marrow.
From composed to utterly anxious in a manner of seconds,
wading through nothing but pure darkness.
Madness, they used to call this.
Carrying past lives around like the photo of a dear departed lover.
The burdens of your ancestors, kings, queens, slaves, grandparents and parents – all the same,
rushing through you, blurring your senses,
buried in your very essence.
Search deep down and you can find it,
drag it out from the great abyss.
Hayden Winston 
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